Thomas Stewart. Larkhall. Circa 1870’s.*That a Black Lady” haunted this house was some folks opinion in my young days and how the report affected even rational beings, the following will show you:---A young servant had occasion to go to the laird’s room with some refreshment one evening, and on reaching the landing, raised her eye from the dishes she was carrying to open the room door, when the Black Lady presented herself right between her and the door. To drop what she carried and scream, was natural, and she did so. The master- who was mad at the reports being circulated—at once opened the door inquiring what was the matter, As the young one knew he would be angry if she mentioned the Black Lady, she evaded his question until she could do so no longer, and admitted having met the Black Lady, who “just melted” when he opened the door. Well, I will let you se her again,” said the laird, shutting the door and revealing the young woman’s shadow extra distinctly thrown on the door by the silent moon shining through a large window at the lassie’s back. That young lass got married, and lived in the village until he was an old woman and her stay no doubt helped to dismiss our “Black Lady o’ Broomy Knowe.

CHILDHOOD. In memory let me wander back and tae ye a’ reca’The happy childhood days we spent when oor world was truly sma’Should you wonder who the de’ll this is , ye’ll realise it a’When I tell ye I was born and raised in Earnock

Wi’ a motley crowd o’ people mixed in a’ degrees,English, Irish, Jews and Scots, Protestants and R.C’s.,Although we’d different points of view, we a’ felt quite at ease,For we’d a common bond, we a’ belanged tae Earnock.

The year’s o’ ‘21 an’ 26, when the strike was at its hicht, When as kids we played at fitba’, bools and peever, fae morn tae nicht,And the auld folks saw that we got fed and mack everything seem a’richt,We’d nae money, but those were happy days in Earnock.

Wi’ soup simmerin’ in the wash-hoose, an’ boolin’ on the greenAn’ the lads aye efter lassies, wi’ a twinkle in their een’Playin’ haun’ ba’ at the gable-end, and a thing we’d never seen,Pit pownies trottin’ aboot the fields at Earnock.

In summer when wi’ gir’n cleek the back roads we could runPu’in berries, pitchin’ tents, or sliding doon the bing for fun,Or pinchin’ turnips oot the plots, then paiddlin’ in the burn,An the first hay-cairt comin’ thro’ the brig tae Earnock.

On winter nichts we sat an’ sang when gethered roon the fireAn’ listened to the harmony at the back-raw crowds’ desireThe co-operative Kinderspiels, Tammy Russell’s Male Voice Choir,We learned tae ‘preciate music back in Earnock.

Time the middle-raw went on fire, and we watched the building flare,Peepin’ Toms, an’ lum-hatted men, that gave us kids a scare,Coal pails fleein’ fae frightened haunds ‘an’ clattering’ doon the stair,These really were excitin’ days in Earnock.

Though the place we knew is still on the map, it isn’t quite the same,And the folks we loved are dead and gone, tho’ in mem’ry they remainWhen the sands of time have trickled out we’ll know that we’ve come hame,When we go to meet the folks that came from Earnock.

Robert (Boab) Prentice. 6.11.1914—17.11.2003.

Robert (Boab) Prentice was born and raised in a pit village in Burnbank known locally as Earnock Rows.The houses were built by John Watson Coalmaster to house the men he employed at Earnock colliery. Boab Prentices father also called Robert was a fireman in Earnock Colliery but he would not allow his son to follow him underground. Boab was to serve his time as an engineering turner in Anderson Boyes, Flemington, Motherwell. His job was to make coal cutting machinery.This poem written by Boab in 1958 as a keepsake for his sister Molly. In verse eight there is a mention of a lum-hatted man frightening the children. This refers to one night when Boab and Molly went down the stairs to fetch a pail of coal and half-way down the stairs they saw the top of a lum hat in the gloom and their imagination did the rest. They ran up the stairs screaming and fell through the door. A minute later there was a knock at the door and there stood a downstairs neighbour with a top hat in his hands. He had been to a funeral and had heard the screaming and he was just wondered if everything was all right. He was reassured it was, but the memory of the incident remained with the children. Also in this verse there is a mention of the middle row going on fire, an elderly relative has also told me this story. It seems that the occupant of the house where the fire started wanted his chimney swept but did not want to pay the chimney sweep. He stuffed some rags up the lum and put a match to them (a common way then of cleaning the soot away from the chimney). However instead of cleaning his chimney he set fire to the building. Twenty-four houses were involved with most of them severely damaged. I doubt if he ever told the factor how the fire started. The fire took place on Saturday 10th August 1918. My elderly relative (Milly Spiers) also told me that many of the occupants were away a bus run to the seaside on the day of the fire and when they came back to the “Raws” many of them found themselves homeless.

“I’ve knitted jersey’s for them a’--- I worked at them for weeks; An’ oot o’ yon auld coat I made Them a pair o’ breeks. Oh, aye! It is an unco help To hae’ a guid machine! Oor Wull—ye ken, my brither, Wull— Ca’s it “the poor man’s freen.”

“The lassies are gey hard to sort; I like to see them braw, It’s bad enough to dress just ane, It’s worse when you ha’e twa. Ye mind that print I keepit in The press below the clock? I took it oot the ither nicht, An’ made then baith a frock.

“Aye! Just the simple slip-on things; No, no! they had nae care. I wad hae made them baith like that, If I had had a shape. It’s won’erfu’ what ye can dae When ane sits doon to think! The lassies? Oh! as prood as Punch! They think they’re nae sma’ drink.”

“My cleanin? Whisht! It’s no’ near done; The hoose is in a muddle, Ay! Just aboot a year the noo, Oor Tam gaed on the fuddle. He hasna got his bottle in, He’ll no’ ha’e ane this year, Ye canna buy much wi’ the dole An’ whisky’s far too dear.

“That’s true! The shops are awfu’ nice! The window’s are gey braw, “Twad be more seasonable, ‘gin We had a pickle snaw. What! Jock comes hame at hauf-past four? He has a gey long day, I see oor Tam ower at the Cross, I’ll hurry on---guidSUB ROSA.

May flowers decked the sunny land As with the Larkie bird in hand, We sailed from California’s shore To sail eight thousand miles or more To dear old Scotland, far away, We left Los Angeles that day On the S.S. Manchuria, For far New York by Panama, And soon were passing Mexico, But only saw the sunset glow On mountain peaks, high in the sky, Then we passed Costa Rica by; And Nicaragua, so green, Off to the East could well be seen, The sun had now waxed warm and bright, And lightening storms raged every night; At last, when nine days sail was done, We passed Cape Hale, near Canal Zone, And reached Balboa, where night was spent. The Southern Cross we could descry--- The stars, like jewels, blazed in the sky; Through Panama, next day, we strolled, Where, pirates buccaneers untold, In olden times had each his day, By noon our ship was on it’s way Through Panama Canal; past rocks, Jungles, through Miraflores Locks, Across the Lake, waters yellow green, To Gatum Locks; a lovely scene. As we the Atlantic Level gain, The deluge came with Tropic rain; At Christobal we bide a wee, Then sail across Carribean Sea. In three days we saw Cuba fair And in Havana’s Plaza square We viewed the people gathered there Then off again to colder seas Past Florida and all its Keys; Past other southern states we go, And saw a whale come up to blow, And anchor, after sixteen days, In New York harbour’s busy maze. A few days in New York were spent, And then on board the Cedric went; We sailed to Boston all that day, And set off then for Queenstown Bay, Where we arrived on Sabbath night, And viewed the green hills with delight We soon passed Wales, and Liverpool Was reached that day; our hearts were full To see our land, and in the train, Were soon in old Scotland again, Old Scotland dear, land of my dreams, Old Tinto tap in sunset gleams; And just as darkness settled down We landed in old Glasgow town. The next morn to Larkhall we went, then Took that wee bird to Avon Glen, The wee bird flew down by The Linn, And joined in song with all its kin. The Avon flowed adown the glen, Abloom with flowers each ferny den; Tall, trees looked down, all robed in green, Stirred by the wind, a lovely scene, And songs were sung so sweet and gay, By that wee bird returned that day; No place so sweet, within my ken, As that dear, lovely Avon Glen.

Where the river Avon murmurs as it winds down to the sea,And nature shows her splendour on every bush and tree,My footsteps oftimes wander with this purpose to pursue, The beauty that abounds around the Vale of Old Millheugh.

The old worlds buildings nestling close, so peaceful and serene,The happy cries of children at play Upon the green,And feathery clouds that drift on high ‘gainst sky of azure blue—Yes, there’s beauty in abundance round the Vale of Old Millheugh.

The many pathways of the “Park”, With grass so verdant green,Where myriad flowers and rose- twined bowers are just an artist’s dream;While on the perfumed laden breeze is wafted clear and true---The thought of all the beauty round The Vale of Old Millheugh.

The gold expanse of ripening corn as far as eye can see.The browsing herds that graze at ease upon the grassy lea, And the blood red sun just sinking in a sky of lovely hue,Adding lustre to the beauty round The Vale of Old Millheugh.

And if by fate or fortune’s wheel My steps should ever veer,And lead me to some distant spot, one wish I would hold dear—To return once more, with pride and joy, and pay my homage toThe beauty that’s eternal; round the Vale of Old Millheugh.

Officials ap’inted a’ without fee,A weavers shop hoosed the comytee,A modest loan at twa per centTae pay all along wi’ rent,Twas thus the ba’ wis set a rowin’Till this day its still agrowin’Frae this bit seedlin’, gey an’ smaSprang up the Lairdies Lavrockha’.

At the Pleasance ower the mairA site was foun’ that promised fair,An’ there in due coorse o’ time,Araise that thing o’ stane an’ lime,It marks the first gairden city plot,A monument tae a thrifty lot,Letchworth, Port Sunlight, in fae’ them a’Jist follow the lead o’ Lavrockha’.

LARKHALL THE PIONEER OF BUILDING SOCIETIES.Sir. As a native of the usually far-seeing and assertive “Larkie,” I am surprised that no effort is apparently being made to celebrate an event, not only of interest only, but of national importance. A Larkhall poet is a song depicting some of the characteristics of his townsmen says “Jist like a Larkie man, gey kin’ o’ thrawn. However obstinate dour, or determined the present day Larkie man may be, he is evidently not prepared to lay himself open to be accused and self-conceit or an exaggerated idea of his importance.Had the building society movement originated in Glasgow, Birmingham, or London, I venture the opinion that considerable preparations would have been made to commemorate the centenary, even in war time, of such a social revolution. Letchworth, Port Sunlight, Bourneville and nearer home, Westerton, Cardonald and elsewhere, have been duly accredited the honour of initiating or developing sound housing reforms, while the modest and unassuming Larkie has even today, after ninety-nine years of building society activities, a larger proportion of house-holders who own their own dwellings than any of the above mentioned ambitious townships.The memory of its pioneers who instituted the first building society in 1817 deserves to be commemorated, not only by their own descendents in Larkie but in every place where the benefits of building societies and town planning schemes are in operation. There is no doubt that the modest little effort in the Gorbals in 1917 was the forerunner of the present popular and much belauded improvements in the housing conditions of the people. It is to be hoped therefore, that something will be done to celebrate such a unique, and uncommon occurrences. Yours in anticipation.R. Bullock. 11 Grace Drive. South Govan.

In Larkhall there is a hostelry known as the “Homestead Bar,” and here genial souls gather on occasion for a crack, a song, or a good story.The audience is said to be more that an ordinary mixed one on a Saturday night, and a frequent patron supplies the following lines expressive of the situation: ---

Every Saturday night, just about seven,There is a crowd, ten or elevenIn the Homestead Bar down London Street,Frae different places we always meet;An’ a working chaps free at the week-end An’ hae an hoor or two tae spend,*Wha keeps things gaun fair and square.

He caws on Sam tae gae’s a bit sang,And start the harmony alang,Then Sam gets up and squares his shoulderSings—“Darling, I am growing older.”The next he ca’s is Tammy Orr,Who keeps the fun gaun wi’ a roar;At telling stories he’s an expert,Then drives to Glesga’ in a soor milk cairt

Noo Geordie Tamson, next on the list,Gets a sang sheet in his fistAnd sings, “Jane, my Jane, my pretty Jane,”Or “Maggie, if you and I were young again.”The next we hear is Geordie Queen,O’ auld Scotch sangs he has a wheen,“The Maid of Longollan,” there far awa,And its no the clean tattie ava.

The Hughie McWhinnie, the next ane he criesSings “I wish I were where Helen lies,”Can gaes that sang “Drinking,” tooAnd then he sings “Were no sae foo.”Then Jimmy Boag caed on tae dae his pairt,He gets up and sings, “For a’ the airts.”And Freddy, gin whom we all know,He sings, “We’ve got a long way to go.”

Then Dougald Fleming, comes in frae the bar,And gives us, “Dark Lochnagar,”Then Tommy Stirrat, yae a’ ken him weel,Stands up and sings “Teddy O’Neil,”Then time is called, wae hae Andrew Reid,At community singing he tak’s the leed,Starts wi’ “Banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,”Then sings on to the Carolina Moon.

In the evening by the moonlight he goes,To the booze that makes you wear bad clothes,And when I’m dead don’t bury us at all, he’ll say, And this is the end of a perfect day. Anonymous. Ref. The Lanarkshire. 30/1/1930. Page 11.

* There appears to be a line missing here. Wilma Bolton. 2005.

EPISTLE TO D R. JOHN ROGERSON, DALSERF. ON THE OCCASION OF HIS MARRIAGE.